The Liars Hour
by GhostoftheMotif
Summary: France tells the truth for once, but his past deceptions sabotage him. In order to prove his sincerity, he has to walk away. France/England main. Prior France/Prussia and some America/England.
1. Chapter 1 Midnight Divide

**Author's Note:** So… after deciding to upload all my fics here alphabetically from lj, I realized that didn't exactly work because it put some sequential stuff out of order. Therefore, I'm going to do this series next, since a lot of oneshots fit into the same 'verse later.

This is part one of five. This series is complete, so updates will be quick.

**Originally posted on lj:** May 10th, 2009.

**Pairings:** France/England, prior France/Prussia, England/America, implied Russia/America; eventual France/England/America/Russia

0o0o0o0o0o0

The wall was cool against my back, only made cooler by the gentle draft from the vent above me. The air was a welcome caress against my skin; it kept me calm and quiet, and it lifted my hair away from my eyes in a fashion I suspected was quite attractive. I pressed the brim of my glass to my mouth and once again mourned the poor vintage as it passed through my lips. I wasn't overly concerned with it, though. My eyes, my mind, and thereby the full extent of my present concerns, were fixed unwaveringly on the center of the room.

England was smiling, not that ironic patronizing smile, but a fond smile he very rarely showed. Very rarely, and never to me. Ah, there was a certain bitterness to the thought. Even from that distance, the smile made his eyes shine, and every laugh and every movement England made led me to tighten my grip on my glass until a small voice in my mind queried if it would break. I replied to that small voice by taking a retaliatory drink. Truth be told, I'd taken quite a few retaliatory drinks that night, and my thoughts were taking a retaliatory break from the rational.

No, my thoughts couldn't possibly be rational, because the light from the ceiling coupled with the lights from the stage couldn't _rationally_ make him glow in that way. Ethereal. Haunting. It reminded me too much of too many different circumstances. The dull hue brought images of both twilight battles and moonlit sheets. Neither were specters I particularly wanted to entertain.

The lights in the club were a soft tasteful blue that only barely penetrated the dark, but the added fixtures behind the band reached out into the crowd with greater strength. The song was a slow, mournful thing that didn't fit the expression on England's face as he looked up at America, hands knitted behind the taller nation's neck. They shared a few words, and England laughed again, and I drank again. They turned to the pair dancing beside them, America leaning in to whisper something to Germany. The other blonde half-smiled, and Italy stood up on tiptoe to try and catch what had been said. He pouted when it wasn't repeated, and England ruffled his hair with a smile before drawing closer to America. Much closer. He leaned down to tuck his head under his partner's chin, head turned to the side.

Our eyes met. I held the contact long enough to make him _wonder_ and then let my gaze drift away with casual boredom. I could still sense him studying me, and the knowledge curved the corners of my lips in crooked smile. I brought my glass to my mouth again, mostly for show, before I looked back. His eyes fell away from mine hastily, and he was quick to say something to America to cover up the moment. The smile was different now, slightly more uncertain. I felt a vindictive sort of pleasure in that fact.

The song ended not long after that, and England tugged America off the dancefloor towards their table not far from where I was standing. They sat down, pulling their glasses closer to themselves. America downed what was left of his drink in one gulp. He winced and I caught the word 'refill' before he pressed his lips to the corner of England's eye (something inside me grew dangerous with that contact) and stood, heading towards the bar. Leaving England alone. England watched the younger nation move away, that same fond expression on his face. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stood as well. When I realized I was his destination, I resolutely turned my attention back to the dancefloor, adopting a look of sculpted ease.

I caught a scent of cologne, buried the recollections it brought, tried not to listen to the way he breathed. He leaned against the wall beside me and waited a few beats before speaking. "What's with the wallflower act? It's unlike you." It was his way of asking if I was all right.

"Oh, but that's an insult." I tilted my head up and to the side as I answered, a playful smile giving the words the feeling I could not. "I am simply being reflective." It was my way of saying I was.

The light played strangely over his pale skin, and I wondered if that skin was still perfect. He gave me a look that suggested he knew me and knew I was lying. Well, he _did_ know me, and I _was_ lying. His eyes were still narrowed. The green looked darker than I remembered. "You're up to something, France."

I feigned looking wounded. "How can you doubt me so? I am only watching my friends relax and be happy. Must there be a motive?"

England waved his hand dismissively and scoffed. "Yes. There's always a bloody motive."

Ah, that tone. I could remember all the times when I'd made him use it. There was this one place, just above his hip and a little to the inside, that if one just _barely_ brushed with a thumb, he'd start stuttering and that tone would fluctuate so beautifully. His immediate reaction would be to raise his hands up to push me away, and of course I'd simply catch one and kiss it just so, and by then I had him. Or he'd use the free hand to slap me. One or the other. Either way I'd kiss him, and his protests translated deliciously with that tongue.

I dulled those memories in favor of the specimen given to me in the present. I let pure _intent_ flash in my eyes as I faced the suspicious green ones. My voice was a breath. "Perhaps my motive was to get you alone with me in this dark corner, mon cher." Oh, if there was ever a truer statement.

He started to retort angrily. But then he really looked at me, and _God_ he either knew me _that_ well or my mask had faltered, because he saw that this wasn't just my usual game. One look and he knew I was far more lost than simply serious. Confusion seeped into his eyes as I took his hand and brushed my lips against the fingertips. "France…?" he pulled his hand back.

I would have kissed him then, but America has a true talent for interruptions that can not be overcome.

He seemed to come out of nowhere. "What are you guys talking about?" America slung an arm around England's shoulders with a wide, friendly grin. His beer nearly sloshed out the bottle.

"Nothing," England replied in a low voice, his eyes never leaving mine. Did I imagine the sudden anger there? "Nothing. We should be going, America." He pressed a hand to America's chest, turning him around. He held onto the taller nation's arm and began to maneuver him away.

"England." I only said his name once.

His footsteps faltered so briefly that I might have deluded myself into believing it happened. I watched him weave through the crowd, my troubled thoughts marked by how my sight locked on the back of his head and never drifted lower.

He didn't look at me until he reached the door.

On the threshold, he glanced back, met my eyes meaningfully, reached up, and dragged America down into a kiss. I saw their tongues touch as he pulled away. The bastard smiled. He looked at me a final time as if to make sure his point had been made.

It had, and damn him for it. Suddenly my drink tasted sour, and I set the glass down on the nearest surface, my head throbbing. My hand rose to my chest, fingers pressing into the center as if they could work away the violent chill. I shook my head, taking deep breaths. This was nothing. He was nothing. Unfortunately, accomplished liar that I may be, I had yet to master lying to myself. Everything inside me ached, and his scent still hovered around me, and I could see that glow when I closed my eyes.

"Am I mistaken, or was that exit for your benefit?"

I opened my eyes, looking wearily to my left. I managed a weak smile. "No, Spain. You're not mistaken."

There was an instant look of sympathy in my friend's eyes. He reached around to grip my opposite shoulder and pressed his lips to my cheek, my jaw, my hairline. "Are you all right?" his voice was sweet, kind.

I raised an eyebrow delicately and shrugged. "Am I ever?"

"That's just it. I can never tell." Spain smiled sadly. "You have two faces, my friend, and both of them are liars."

I let out a twisted laugh and winced immediately after; that hurt too. "Then I am fine and always will be."

He studied me silently while the band sang some asinine chorus that was so optimistic it was painful. "Come home with me and Romano. You can stay with us a while. We can drink and talk."

I loved him for it, but I shook my head. "Merci, but no. I think…" I broke off for a moment. "I think I just need to walk."

Spain reached up, turned my head to face him. He searched my eyes for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded. "All right. But call me when you get home. I don't care how late it is."

I smiled. "Oui." And I left.

The night air was warm and the breeze not cool enough to be considered bracing. The streetlights were blaring, too bright. I shut them out of my mind with the ease that someone would wave away a fly. The sidewalk was firm and solid beneath my feet, and I seemed to notice that more than anything else. Stray lines from some song slipped through my lips. I don't think I was really aware of them. They probably seemed applicable to some far corner of my mind, and that part was resolutely churning them out while the rest of me replayed England and America's kiss over and over and over. I was more drunk than I'd realized.

Sometimes I was distracted. A pretty little thing would walk by, and _oh_ she could help me, she could _definitely _help me. But she couldn't, not enough, and I just walked by and didn't even flash a smile. After a while, I stopped seeing them. They were there, but not for me.

Now on my left there was water, and I slowed my pace. The lights reflecting on the black surface soothed me somewhat. I sank onto a bench and watched the minute waves. I thought of the ocean and how it divided us, and wasn't there symbolism in that? And ocean divided him and America too, but it was a greater distance. The means and strength it had taken them to cross that distance was too powerful to be buried or rivaled with.

Comparatively, I was out of luck.

I let out a low laugh and idly ran a hand through my hair. Spain said I had two faces and both of them were liars. If that were so, then what face had ever told England that I loved him?


	2. Chapter 2 Midnight Advice

It was well into the night when I opened the door to let Spain inside, wearing my customary smile. Spain saw through it at once, and his answering look chastised me for it. Despite this, my smile only brightened as if to say _yes, I am a fool, that's why you're here isn't it?_

The previous night (that morning, really), I had called Spain as promised. I'd barely spoken three words before Spain insisted he visit and that we take up the proffered drink. He said he'd come to me, that he didn't want me driving. I slept through the day, telling myself it was in order to be fully awake to speak with my friend rather than from seeking a lethargic sanctuary. Spain had made me promise not to start on the wine until he arrived, so denial had been rather difficult to maintain for long. Dear Antonio knew me too well.

The air on the balcony was neither cool nor warm, that perfect temperature that one almost didn't notice but was thankful for all the same. There was a breeze curling through the streets below, lifting loose sheets of paper over the alleyways, but it didn't reach us four stories up.

Spain was looking over the railing with a pensive expression. He turned his back on the skyline, however, when he heard me pour the first glass. He accepted his own with a nod and a smile.

As tradition dictated, I poured a third glass for the empty seat to my left. Our gaze lingered on that glass for a moment, and we both experienced the same dull ache before meeting each other's eyes and smiling helplessly. It was useless for us to try and imagine the reckless laugh and burning eyes that should have been there. But no matter how many times I attempted to dismiss it, that ache stayed with me.

Spain lifted the brim of his glass to his lips and took a sip. "This is about England, si?"

"Isn't it always?" I answered with a mock toast.

"No," Spain answered quietly. "Sometimes it's about…" He took another brief glance at the untouched third glass before raising his eyes back to mine. I pretended not to notice. "But of course it's about England this time. He and America haven't been as private with their affection of late. It's difficult not to notice." With a soft sigh, he shook his head. "His actions last night, the way he left… That was cruel to you."

I smiled wryly, took a drink. "Sometimes it's easy to forget what he's capable of. You'd think I'd remember." Ah, but love was blind, was it not? But unless love was also deaf, dumb, and composed of saintly patience, it didn't explain why England was with America.

Spain considered me carefully. "This can't have caught you by surprise, my friend."

"Of course not," I said with a careless wave of an elegant hand. The dispelled air made the candles in the center of the table flicker. "After all, I was the one that got them drunk the first night they had sex." I'd gotten tired of watching the two of them tread so cautiously around each other, and I hadn't been the only one. That first encounter had been an easy thing to arrange.

"Let me see if I can guess where this pain has come from then." Spain's eyes fell half-lidded. "You thought England and America would be sweet together, and being the authority on love that you are, you took it upon yourself to help them along."

I was quiet, my only movement the raising of my glass.

"But you thought it would stay simple. You thought they just needed to get through that barrier, and then their relationship would mellow out. You never believed that England would choose _monogamy_, that he'd choose to stay exclusively with America and leave you." Spain poured us both a second glass. "You thought he only _wanted_ America and that the love between them was platonic. You never expected them to really be _in_ love. And now you not only realize the truth but that you're the one that made it possible. You sabotaged yourself."

I bowed my head with a low, shaky laugh. "Yes, that summarizes it quite nicely. You know my mind as well as ever."

"We are both passionate people," Spain smiled weakly. "There are many similarities between us."

"Ah, but I have no shame, and therein lies the difference." My accompanying laugh was slightly more genuine. Then my hand rose to my face, covering my eyes in a way I hoped didn't look as pathetic as it felt. "I'm a fool. I know it."

"You're still in love," Spain said gently, softly tracing a few fingers through my hair. I tilted my head into the touch. "You of all people should know not to punish yourself for that."

"But that's the most crucial part of this tragedy, Antonio!" I laced our fingers together, suddenly, dramatically. "The part that you did not speak of…"

Spain caught the feverish glint in my eyes and I could tell he was reminded of a similar conversation we'd had not long ago about a different love, one we'd both shared in our own ways. Another glance to that third glass.

"I don't know if I'm in love or simply jealous!" I spoke like the statement was a revelation instead of the obvious condition that it was. "I want him, that I'm aware of. I want him very badly. But would I still want him this much if he hadn't chosen America, if he'd kept us both? I am not sure." I kissed the back of Spain's captured hand as if to distract myself. "I do love him, I know I do. But which kind of love is it? I've felt so many different loves, Spain." When had my glass emptied again? I poured myself another, releasing my grip on my friend.

Spain's eyes traveled over my profile, studying my expression for the tell-tale signs he knew were there. "Do you want me to tell you my opinion?"

"Always," I answered with a smile that was so out of place it made the other nation wince.

He looked out to the skyline for a moment before looking back. "I believe that you are in love with him. I don't think I've ever known you not to be." Spain took another drink, and his eyes landed on my glass, seeming to become aware that my third (fourth?) was half empty. Though he said nothing, I knew he'd be monitoring it. "All of this talk about whether or not you're only jealous is your way of diverting yourself from the truth. You think your situation is hopeless and are trying to stave off that realization as long as possible by convincing yourself you are not truly invested."

"You sound so certain, it must be true." And it was. I said the words with the same smile from before, but as soon as they left my mouth the expression died. "And what is there for me to do?"

"Have a better sense of timing and sobriety, for starters," Spain suggested tenderly. "A randomly chosen club, containing not only his lover but many of our fellow nations, was not the right place to make him aware of your attention. Really, I'm surprised at you, Francis. Normally you're so eloquent in these matters."

"Yes, but my usual charm has never seemed to affect England the way it does others." Something fond and far away flickered in my mind, memories of arguments and rejections that were sometimes just for show. But then they faded, and that something inside me darkened. "In truth, I'm not sure he's ever really loved me. Non, _la charité est patiente, elle est pleine de bonté_. And so he can not love me. _Elle supporte tout, elle croit tout, elle espère tout, elle endure tout_. And so he can not love me." I didn't know why I chose to quote scripture. It meant little to me anymore. But it made me think of him.

"I warn you…" Spain started, stopped, wet his lips, started again. "Telling him of your affections now might be as cruel as the way he left you last night. The kindest thing you could do for him would be to stay silent. It is…" He didn't want to say this, I could feel his hesitation. "It is obvious that he has made his decision. But to not say anything would only be a cruelty to yourself, and my love for you is greater. Because of this, I urge you to be honest. Don't lie, don't embellish." That was asking much, surely he knew. "Say it simply, directly, but do no more than that. If you love him, then you will respect him and will not touch him. Take his response to heart and leave him if need be."

I wasn't looking at him anymore, but Spain knew I was listening. "Oui."

It was the only answer he'd expected to receive. My responses became uncharacteristically concise when it came to advice I did not want to hear, and he was used to that fact.

I rested my chin on a loosely fisted hand. "What do you think he'd say?"

I could tell by his pained expression that Spain almost answered in reference to England. Then he caught the way the candlelight flickered in the blue of my eyes and in the claret liquid filling the third glass. A shadow, a ghost, seemed to pass over his expression, and maybe one did. "He'd tell you to walk right up to him, slam him into a wall, and kiss him. The hell with the consequences." Spain let out a soft little laugh and shook his head. "Or he'd tell you to ask America if there was a possibility of a threesome."

Spain's cellphone rang before I could respond, making us both jolt upright in surprise. He said a quick apology, but I waved at him to answer it. "I'm ready to take this inside anyway," I assured him. It was a lie, but he was too distracted to catch it.

Spain nodded, kissed my forehead, and answered the call. He stood and walked back inside my apartment.

I remained on the balcony to give him privacy, suspecting it was Romano on the other end. Likely, there wouldn't be much to overhear anyway (they moved so slowly and remained clandestine), but I felt I owed him the solitude nonetheless. For a moment, I searched my city's skyline as though trying to find an answer in the yellow, orange, and red-tinged darkness. I downed the rest of my glass and set it aside.

With a slow release of breath, I stood. I walked to the railing, fingers hooking around the untouched third glass as I did so. A few seconds passed before I looked down at the wine. I swirled the contents, the corners of my lips pulling into a smile that was three parts sadness and one part warmth. "Wherever you are, you're laughing at me… aren't you?"

I could almost hear the sound, almost feel it reverberating in my chest.

_Gilbert… _

My eyes fell closed. "Well, I'm laughing at me too, mon ami." I kissed the brim of the glass and then poured the wine over the railing and into the street below.


	3. Chapter 3 The Witching Hour

**Author's Note: **Sorry it took me a while to get this chapter up… I'll have the fourth part up tomorrow night and the last part up on Wednesday. Thank you so much for your reviews!

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It was very rare for me not to find the peace to sleep when Spain was beside me. Tonight was one of those rare nights, and even with the warmth of my (fully clothed) friend curled next to me, my eyes were open. I tried to focus on something, but I couldn't decide where to look. My gaze flitted from one thing to another with the same irregularity as my thoughts.

I turned my head to the side to check the time. It was a little after two in the morning, still early by my standards.

Unwittingly, I smiled. The most important moments in my life seemed to happen in the witching hour. I'd always found that fact to be a source of amusement. It seemed appropriate. How fitting was it that the time when demons were said to be their most active was also the time when I suffered at my own demons' hands? Not at the hands of their soldiers or their rulers, no. These were the hours they came to me themselves. Or I went to them.

Prussia and England had always been my demons, and I was a man easily possessed. Now one was a ghost, and I was a man easily haunted. Death had stolen the first and indifference the other. At least Prussia and I had been graced with foresight and given our goodbyes. England had simply taken my hand one day and taken someone else's the next. I suppose I was guilty of the same. Love blinds the hopeful and sweetens the hypocrites.

My eyes rose to the ceiling, tinged with orange strips of light filtering from the curtains. If I fell asleep, would I dream of one of them? No, I wouldn't want that, not now. I preferred the waking dreams that I could control. Dreams with closed eyes had the tendency to become nightmares, and after the new content that these past few days had supplied my subconscious with, I did not want to leave it to chance.

And yet that logic was flawed. If I fell asleep, I might suffer through one nightmare.

Awake, I could suffer through many memories.

0o0o0o0o0o0

_**A 12:00pm in the past... **_

The room was small, shamefully bare. At my best, I wouldn't have given the inn a second glance. I would have spared it a laugh and passed by until something more worthy presented itself. At my worst, injured and running and desperate, it was a blessed sanctuary.

Damn them. Damn them both. I'd never expected to face both of them at the same time.

I had separated from the vanguard, knowing that when England and Prussia set off after it, I would be caught among the others. I might have stayed, but when I looked in That Man's face and he said "Run", I had obeyed without hesitation. He must have known he was only prolonging the inevitable. I knew it, saw nothing to gain by denying it. That battle had been the beginning of my end.

The bandage frayed beneath my teeth as I bit and pulled, tightening it around the long gash in my arm. Blood was already blossoming through the bottom layers, and I knew it wouldn't last long. The innkeeper and his wife had taken me for a common soldier and were willing to provide medicine, but not enough.

"So this is where you've come to lick your wounds… I'll help if you like."

Only one man, one _nation_, could work that much danger and insinuation into a single sentence.

I was on my feet, sword unsheathed before the last syllable left those sneering lips. "Prussia." I said the name like a curse.

His smile widened from where he was leaning in the doorway. His skin and clothes were still wet with red (where were the innkeeper and his wife?), but he wore it like the most elegant finery. I usually found that quality attractive, but that was _my_ people's blood, _my_ people's life. "Put that away." There was a dark laugh in his tone that I recognized. "I didn't come here to spill more of your blood. Not like that, at least." As though he were calling my bluff, he walked forward and casually brushed the blade aside.

I stepped back, unwilling to let the space between us diminish. I brought the sword back around in a silent threat, but he seemed unbothered by it.

"I saw you separate from the others and followed," he continued, slipping his hat off his head and tossing it away from us. His other hand went to his cloak, and after a moment it fell to the floor in a pool of dark fabric. "I didn't tell England, of course. You know how I feel about sharing."

I never knew what was more difficult, the transition we made from friends to enemies or from enemies to friends. I looked at Prussia and saw the nation I'd drank with, laughed with, slept with. His eyes were the same eyes that met mine over the rims of our glasses, that smile was the same one he flashed whenever he'd kissed me. But that smile was also the same one he'd worn when his sword had cut into my chest, and those eyes were the same eyes that had watched me bleed.

"If you're here to claim some sort of prize, mon ami, you'll be disappointed," I said in a low voice. My hair was matted with sea spray and blood, and a long strand hung over my eyes. I needed it out of the way, but couldn't spare the movement it would take to brush it aside. The moment my attention wavered, even for something so trivial, was the moment when Prussia would rush forward. "You haven't caught me in a willing mood."

He was still in his battle craze, I could see it in his face. The way he looked at me when I said those words, however, was the furthest thing from feral. "A prize? I've come here for two reasons, but it's up to you which I'll act on." Prussia's smile faded slightly as he spoke.

Anger coiled in my chest. I was shaking, furious. My grip on the hilt tightened. "After everything that happened today, you _dare_ pretend that I have a choice in this? I know you, Prussia! Whatever it is that you want, you'll take it!"

Something almost teasing glimmered in those red eyes. "But I'm not Prussia. I'm Gilbert, and I'm looking for Francis." He shrugged his shoulders and smirked as he sidestepped my sword for a second time. I was too fixated on that statement to try to stop him. "You see, my friend got beaten bloody today, and…" his hand rose, slipped beneath my tied hair, and cradled the base of my skull. "I just want to comfort him the only way I know how." He stayed an arm's length away, his fingertips remaining motionless in my hair rather than forcing me forward as I had expected.

I said nothing, searching his face for the differences between _Gilbert_ and _Prussia._

His smirk widened into a smile, and his eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight. "Is he here or am I looking at the nation I'm trying to kill?"

And I understood. He wanted me, but couldn't decide what to do once he got me. Part of him saw me this way, wounded and defeated, and wanted nothing more than to help me. Another part of him was looking at the prideful bastard that had started this war, and that part wasn't above injuring me further, wasn't above murder. He was letting me choose between my friend and the animal.

I closed the remaining distance between us. "I'm here," I whispered against his lips before I covered them with my own. I tried to ignore the taste of blood and the knowledge of where it came from.

0o0o0o0o0o0

_**A 1:00am in the past…**_

I had no right to be here. I was trespassing on something immensely personal, something I had no place in. Rather than deterring me, however, it simply led me to use the window rather than the door.

The second-story window was one that England purposefully left unlocked for my sake, and my coming here depended entirely on him being too compromised to think to lock it. It slid open easily, and I smiled. I gripped the ledge and slipped through the open space without making a sound, landing in the dark guest room beyond. Stopping to straighten my clothes (I frowned in distaste at the dirt on my sleeve), I listened to my surroundings but heard nothing.

Guilt that had long since become familiar to me clenched around my heart, but with equal familiarity I ignored it. I knew I was partially to blame. I was here because I was partially to blame. But that didn't mean I had to dwell on it. England was likely doing enough of that for both of us.

With a deep breath, I crossed the room and opened the door. It creaked, but I closed it behind me without pause. Either he'd heard me or he hadn't. Judging from the lack of sudden movement and cursing, I guessed he hadn't. I edged down the black hallway, one hand on the wall to my left. When I reached the third door, I faltered.

If I opened this door, I'd be in his bedroom. Should I check there first or check the study downstairs? I steadied myself, placed my hand on the doorknob, and twisted. The door swung open just enough to let me steal a glance inside. His bed was empty. "Downstairs, then…" I decided quietly. I shut the door gently and moved on.

The stairs were just as dark as the hall, and I was once again relieved that they weren't overly narrow. It wouldn't have been a very graceful entrance if I had made England aware of my presence by tripping.

I turned right at the end of the stairs and saw that there was a rectangle of light from the open door of his study. Knowing that he was here, that he was just down the hall, brought the guilt from earlier back tenfold. I didn't try to quell it this time. There was no point. I deserved this quiet ache. I swallowed hard and took smooth, unhurried steps towards the doorway.

England was sitting at his desk, hunched over fresh parchment. His clothes were disheveled, and the ornate attire I'd grown used to seeing him wear had dwindled to a simple white shirt and worn slacks. I didn't see any bottles nearby, but the soft color in his face and the glaze in his eyes convinced me that he must have _just_ convinced himself to put the alcohol away.

He didn't notice me until I sighed.

The change in him was instantaneous. He didn't move much, just straightened in his seat. But his eyes… there was a hatred in them that I had never wanted to see there. "Get out." England's voice was colder than I'd ever heard it, and yet it shook. I could see the tension in his shoulders, could see the pain in the firm line of his mouth. I wanted to hold him, to make him forget, if only for an instant.

My expression softened. "Non."

"_Get out!" _he snarled.

His hand moved to his side so fast that I didn't realize what he'd done until the knife was quivering in the wall an inch from my temple. "Please…" I said with a shaky smile, raising my hands in an attempt to placate him. "I only want to help you."

"Help _me?_" He laughed callously, and the sound sent a shudder down my spine. The way he looked at me… "You helped _him!_ You helped him do this to me!"

I hated how true those words were. "I know," I said quietly, turning my gaze away. I couldn't look him in the eyes anymore.

England stood, hands splayed on his desk. "Get out of my house, now, France."

Memories of England from when he was still a child rose into my mind. How many times had he gotten angry with me and demanded that I leave? And how many times had I laughed, ruffled his hair, and stayed? I raised my head and smiled gently, warmly. "But who will you talk to if I am gone?"

His hands clenched, and he looked down. He seemed to be sinking inward. For a disbelieving moment I thought he was crying, but when he looked up his eyes were dry. "It's ironic isn't it?" He asked with a dark smile. "You're so terrified of losing me, but the pain you'd feel if you did… that's what you helped America inflict on me."

Pain shot through me, cold, bitter. "Non!" I exclaimed desperately, stumbling forward. "Non, I didn't mean…" I reached out towards him even though there was still a great space between us.

England said nothing, just looked at me. The only emotion on his face was portrayed in his eyes. Anger. Blame. Disgust. "Leave," he repeated.

But there was something uncertain in his tone now, something I recognized. It was the same tone he'd always used when he tried to convince me that he didn't need help.

It was the tone he used when he told me to go but wanted me to stay… and hated himself for it.

"England," I murmured.

He watched me warily as I approached him. He looked cornered, afraid, and furious all at once. When my hand rose to cup his face, he jerked away from me and took a step back. It was pointless. I'd made up my mind, and I needed this as much as he did. I was tired of looking at him across an ocean, across a battlefield, across a room, and not being able to _touch him_.

I reached forward and gripped his forearms, slamming him into the wall. One of his hands tangled in my hair, pulling away the ribbon that tied it back. I was kissing him before it had even fallen against my neck. He bit my lip, hard, not to incite me but to make me stop. I didn't, couldn't. Tasting him again after all this time was too sweet. My grip on his arms tightened, and I lifted him further up the wall, using my weight to suspend him at my level.

I broke away for breath and pressed my lips to his jaw and neck, not wanting to waste any contact. I heard him whisper "_France…_" and there was so much need in the way he said it that my mind blanked for a moment.

I met his eyes, paused. "It's alright…" I wasn't sure if I believed my own words, and I'm sure it showed in my face. But in this moment, England was looking at his elder brother, and in this moment he trusted me. "I'm here." That at least, was true. And I had no intention of leaving. My mouth closed over his again, and this time he didn't bite. This time his lips parted, and he leaned into me.

He turned his head to the side. "Stay here, please," England breathed. He looked ashamed. "Just tonight, stay… Be there when I wake up."

My arms fell to wrap around his waist, to pull him against him. "I will be."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**A 2:00am in the past…**_

I opened the door to his room and walked in without hesitation. I'd expected him to shout out, to react to me with violence. Instead, Prussia only shot me a brief glance from where he was lounging on his bed and then looked back at the ceiling.

"Hey." His arms were folded behind his head, one leg straight out, the other bent at the knee.

"Sorry for the time…" I replied uneasily. This was not the reaction I'd prepared myself for. The last time I'd seen Prussia, he'd been held back by Russia's guards to keep him from ripping my throat out. Even though the blame for his fate was spread equally among the Allies, he seemed to blame me the most. It had been war, and my mind tried to rationalize what I was feeling with that fact. Then he'd shouted _traitor, you were my friend_ and something inside me had broken. "Spain told me that you'd see me now."

A smirk curved his lips. "Obviously. I haven't tried to kill you, have I?"

"Pru—"

"East," he corrected stonily.

I looked at him with surprise and distaste. "I refuse to call you that."

He gave a dry laugh, and his back arched a little with the sound. I tried to bury the images it revived. "Why? It's what you made me." Ah, there was some of the anger I'd been expecting. He turned his face towards me, expression dark despite the smile. "Feeling ashamed, my friend?"

If he only knew. "Please," I implored him. "I don't want to fight. Not now."

"Yeah, wouldn't want to waste our last night together." The words were spoken conversationally as he straightened, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Right, _France?_" He said my name like a curse.

"But I'm not France," I spoke quietly. "I'm Francis, and I'm looking for Gilbert." I thought I saw recognition flicker across his face. "Is he here or is he already dead?"

Prussia stared at me for a moment before he bowed his head and laughed. The sound was starved and held no warmth. "Oh, he's here." He tilted his head just enough to meet my eyes. "But you shouldn't have used those words."

"Why?" I asked, flashing a smile that I'd regret later. "They're the same ones you said to me all those years ago. Our circumstances are the same."

Anger as sudden as it was brutal overcame his expression. "They are not the same!" It was the first time he'd shouted since I'd entered the room. He leapt to his feet and was moving towards me in an instant, but I didn't dare to move. "You weren't going to die! I cut you open, but I didn't leave you that way. I didn't kill you!" He grabbed my shirt collar in one fist, dragged me forward. I couldn't see anything but those eyes. "And what have you done to me, France?" he asked with a feral sneer. "What have you done to me?"

I kissed him. Fool that I was, it was all that I could think to do. I had no answer for him, and nothing I could say would calm the anger in him or the guilt in me. He tasted like alcohol (I suppose we both did), but there was something else too, something I struggled not to call decay. His tongue moved before mine did, pushing through my lips with force it wouldn't have needed. I couldn't breathe. One hand was still at my collar, nearly choking me, and the other arm had latched around my waist.

But this was familiar. Words might have failed me, but this was an argument I could win. I kept my eyes open; his were closed. For some reason, that only made me want this more. I raised my hands slowly from my sides, gently rested one on his chest, and brought the other to his face. I didn't try to take control of the kiss, simply let myself be taken by the frenzied motion. He would be violent, and I would be kind. With a pang, I realized how much I'd missed this, missed him.

"Why won't you fight me?" he demanded against my bruised lips.

"Because this is what I want and…" I closed my eyes, rested our foreheads together. "…I don't want a fight to be the last thing you remember about me. I don't want it to be the last thing I remember about you." I felt his sharp intake of breath. I half-opened my eyes to see his were wide. "Gilbert, I…" But I couldn't say the words. I'd used them so often that they seemed worthless now when they should have meant everything.

"Don't," he said fiercely, but not with anger. "Don't, Francis. Not yet."

_Yet…?_ I barely had time to fully register that word, to realize he'd used my name, before he'd spun me around to lead me backwards to the bed. He kissed me slower this time, with more discipline. We were pressed so close together that when my back finally hit the mattress, I didn't feel that we'd lost any space. His lips were chapped, rough, and I could feel that mine were no longer smooth. Every movement he made was coarse; every movement I made was refined.

But when his hands slipped beneath my shirt and made contact with bare skin, my hands faltered at his waist because… I'd wanted this so long, and it had been so long since I'd last felt him. I let out a breath of a gasp, and Gilbert smiled above me. He undid the buttons of my shirt with quick, practiced movements and slid it slowly off my shoulders. Straddling my waist, he sat up, hooked his fingers beneath the hem of his own shirt, pulled it off, and slung it away with a grin.

I sat up, hands gripping his hips, and kissed a trail up his chest to his neck. One of his hands wound into my hair and pulled back, tilting my face up so his mouth could meet mine. His teeth worried my lower lip, and a small sound escaped me. But then I noticed the blemishes covering his fair skin, the bruises, the cuts, and I jerked away to look at him. Purple and black stained his chest and stomach like ink. "What have they done…" I started, but he didn't let me finish.

He moved with me when I pulled back. "Shh, it's alright." It was strange to hear him use that sort of voice, that comforting soothing sort of voice. He pressed his lips to mine almost feverishly. His hands locked on my shoulders and gently guided me backwards. His pants fit loosely (I tried not to think of the weight he'd lost) and I pushed them easily off his hips. Mine came off not long after, and for a moment we simply stared at each other, red into blue, as though truly realizing for the first time that this _was_ our last night.

We didn't waste it. He let me say those words, and for the first time in my memory he said them back to me.

When morning came, I wasn't sure if I was clinging to him or if he was clinging to me, only that nothing but death could have separated us. And five days later, it did. But I was already miles away, not permitted to be with him as he died. That was Germany's place, not mine.

Germany was whole, and Gilbert was nothing but the memories I fought so hard to keep fresh in my mind.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**A 3:00am in the past…**_

I woke early, as I always did. Whether one blamed it on my talent for disappearing long before my partner awakened or on my negligible need for sleep, I kept late nights and woke before the morning had really begun. That being said, 3:00am was a little too early by my standards, and I considered going back to sleep. But what if I didn't wake up in time as a result? When I opened my eyes, however, I realized none of this mattered because England was already awake.

I wet my lips, unsure of what to say. We'd argued, and for once our actions afterward hadn't led to apologies.

He turned to look at me from where his back was resting against the headboard. He smirked. "Don't worry. I think I forgave you in my sleep."

My lips worked into a lazy smile. "Couldn't resist my flawless charm?" I asked with a wink, stretching languidly.

"Don't push your luck," England responded with a huff, crossing his arms. He was so cute when he pouted like that… probably because he tried to look proper while doing it. I'm sure he would have been insulted if I called it pouting. Sulking, maybe? No, that wasn't right. "Anyway, I need you to leave soon."

"Hmm?" I asked. My eyes had trailed down his bare chest, and I was a little distracted.

"I said, I need you to leave," he clarified with an impatient edge in his tone. He caught my stare, and one of his eyes twitched in annoyance. "Stop that! Pay attention when I'm talking."

My eyes traveled slowly, _very_ slowly, back to his. "Leave? And why is that?" I asked silkily. My hand slipped beneath the covers to rest on his thigh, fingertips slowly brushing up the smooth skin.

"A… America's coming to visit, and I…. Would you _please stop that?_ I don't have time for this right now." His hand gripped my wrist, directing me away from where I'd been stroking him.

"America…?" I asked curiously. A light went off in my head. "Oh! So you're finally going to make a move~!" I threw my arms around his neck and pulled him close before he could resist me. "I'm so proud of you!"

"What? No!"

I wasn't listening. I pressed a kiss to his cheek and then nuzzled his neck. "Oh, the two of you will be so adorable together. The sex might be awkward at first, but once you work past that—"

"Bloody hell!" He snapped, turning red. "That's not why he's coming over! We're just… um…"

"Talking?" I supplied with another wink, walking my fingers up his chest.

He caught my hand again, but I merely laced our fingers together and kissed his knuckles. "D-dammit, France. You're incorrigible."

"Make sure you're on top," I continued with the tone I used to take with him when he was a child learning a lesson. "He might be stronger than you right now, but you're older and you raised him, so mmph—!"

His mouth closed over mine angrily, cutting me off. Nothing could have silenced me as effectively. "Shut up," he commanded when he broke away. Not for the first time, the blush ruined the effect.

I brushed my fingertips over his lips. "Using my tactics against me?" My eyes flashed with a predatory glint that made him shiver. "Oh, but you must be prepared for the consequences."

He leaned backwards before I could kiss him suitably. "Wait… so… you don't mind?" he asked skeptically.

I raised a delicate eyebrow. "That you kissed me to make me stop talking? Mon cher, if I minded that, I wouldn't have many friends."

"No! Not that. I meant America coming here and…" he trailed off, staring at me warily.

Oh, he was worried about that? He was so sweet sometimes; it made it very confusing when he decided to be the opposite. "Of course not!" I laughed lightly. "I think it would be good for both of you, and he _is_ very attractive, albeit annoying."

"Good," he smiled, relaxing into my touch. "I didn't want you to be jealous."

Nearly a minute passed before I replied, my lips and tongue being otherwise occupied. "Why would I be jealous?" I finally managed. "We may rarely get along anywhere but the bedroom, but I'll always have you, and you'll always have me. What is there to be jealous of?"

He smiled sadly, but at the time I thought it was a reaction to the middle statement, not the last. I didn't realize until much later that he'd already begun to pull away from me.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**4:00am in the present…**_

Spain stirred beside me and sat up when he saw my eyes were open. "You… you haven't slept at all, have you?" he asked gently. One of his hands toyed with my hair in a way I'd always found comforting when we were younger.

I turned on my side, one arm going around his waist, and curled into him. "Non…" I answered wearily.

He continued to stroke my hair, his other arm resting over mine. "France…" he murmured, kissing the top of my head.

I was still, but only for an instant. Then everything seemed to rush into me at once, and I was filled with a sudden fervor. What was I doing wasting away in this bed? One of my loves was dead, and I was slowly losing the other. "I have to go," I said suddenly, jolting upright. "I have to speak with him."

"Now…?" Spain asked incredulously, shooting a glance at the clock.

"Yes, now! When else?" I started to get slip out from beneath the covers, but Spain gripped my wrist and pulled me backwards.

Before I could even consider struggling, he'd wrapped his arms around my waist, pinning my arms to my side. I gaped at him. "No, I don't think so. You're drunk, you're tired, and it's four in the morning. I'm not letting move from this bed." He spoke genially and with a smile.

I tried to move my arms, but it was impossible. Even half-asleep, Spain was a force of stubbornness to be dealt with. It was no wonder that he'd been able to partially tame Romano. "If you love me, you'll let me do this!" I tried desperately.

"No, France," Spain chided. "If I love you, I won't let you make a fool out of yourself." He settled his head closer into my chest. "Now stop trying to fight me and go to sleep."

"Non! This is a matter that can not wait until—"

He kissed me, platonically, soothingly. Even from a friend such as him, it was a way to distract me. He broke away with the same exhausted, good-natured smile. "Sleep. If you go to him now, he'll only be tired and annoyed with you. You can go to him later, and I won't stop you. But for now, sleep."

I sighed and tried to steal another kiss for comfort's sake, but he narrowed his eyes at me, and I behaved myself. Later in the day, his interference seemed much less like betrayal, and I was as thankful for him as ever.


	4. Chapter 4 Midnight Lies

**Author's Note: **One more part after this one! Then there's a Russia/America sidefic and a oneshot sequel that'll be posted separately.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Spain was not very happy with me. It was ten in the morning, and I already had a glass of wine in my hand. I could tell from the way his eyes lingered on the bottle that he was considering taking it at the first moment my attention was diverted. In my thoughts, I wished him luck.

"Don't you think it would be better to go to England sober?" he asked with a sigh, setting his empty plate aside.

I replied by taking another swallow and looking in the other direction, over the balcony. He sighed again. I'd been sullen since I'd woken up. It wasn't his fault, and he knew it and did not dwell on it. My mind was simply otherwise occupied.

I had finally fallen asleep that morning after Spain's intervention. Despite those five hours, I did not feel rested. I'd dreamed, not of England, but of Prussia. Normally my dreams of Prussia revolved around his death, and I awoke from them with the same desperate fear I'd felt in those last moments. This dream had been different, the ghost of a conversation we'd often had.

"Spain?"

He looked mildly surprised. "Oh, are you talking now?"

"Prussia and I…" his facial expression deadened with those first few words, "…used to talk about something almost every time we met. But I don't think I've ever heard your opinion." My eyes were still focused over the balcony so that I only caught his reaction from the edge of my sight.

Something in my tone made Spain decide he wanted a glass as well. He poured one and leaned back in his chair. "Then explain it to me, and I'll be happy to tell you."

"We used to say," I began, "that we were very much alike and that our lives followed similar paths… not as nations, but as people," I clarified, adding the last phrase to counter the incredulity on Spain's face. "The reason I think of this now is… He loved Germany the way I love England, and he had to watch Germany with Italy the way I have to watch England with America." I studied the claret color of my wine. "Do you think we loved them the same?"

Spain was silent for a moment, considering. "You… will not like my answer," he warned.

"I'm used to that." I waved at him to speak.

He took a breath, took a drink, and took a moment to collect his thoughts. "You both loved your younger brothers, yes, but I believe Prussia loved Germany more and with a truer heart."

My eyes snapped off the skyline and onto Spain in the span of a heartbeat, but I had no idea what to say.

Spain didn't look to me, perhaps thinking that if he did he'd lose his nerve to continue. "Prussia loved Germany since he was a child, loved him since before he even knew him as Germany, yet he did not allow those feelings to deviate until Germany was old enough to understand. Even though he cared for Germany more than anyone, even us, when he saw how happy Germany was with Italy, he stepped aside and walked away."

My gaze fell from Spain's face to lock on the table's surface. I felt numb. I knew the connection he would make.

"Do you know what Prussia said to me the last time I saw him?" Spain went on. He continued without waiting for my answer because he knew he hadn't told me this. "He told me he didn't want to die."

My hands clenched, and suddenly I was cold.

"He told me he didn't want to die, but that he wanted Germany to be strong. Do you see, France?" he asked imploringly. "Prussia sacrificed his love and his life for Germany. What have you sacrificed for England? You can't even stand to watch him with someone else, someone who is as dear to him as he is to you."

I knew I was selfish, knew it, knew it, knew it. But did he have to say it that way? Did he have to say it in that context? I didn't want to think of the pain that I'd put England through or of the ways I'd chosen my own wants over his. I already dwelled on that enough without realizing that _Prussia, _arrogant depraved _Prussia, _had been more selfless that I. Antonio's honesty would be the death of me one day.

Silence stretched between us for an uncomfortable amount of time, but Spain seemed unbothered. On the contrary, he pulled my plate of half-eaten breakfast in front of him and began to help himself.

"You could have just stabbed me," I said finally with a wry smile, eyes focused downwards. "It would have shocked me less and been less painful."

"But it wouldn't have gotten the point across," Spain replied without looking up.

I shook my head helplessly. "No, I suppose it wouldn't have." What _had_ I ever sacrificed for England? Nothing really, and anything I lost was taken in battle, not given freely. "Is that what you'd have me do then? 'Walk away' as you put it?"

"As I told you last night, only if it's necessary." Spain finally met my eyes with a look of empathy. "Tell him the truth and leave if necessary."

"But you believe it will be necessary." It wasn't really a question though it was spoken as such.

His expression spared no hope for me, and I knew my words were true before he answered. "Yes. I do."

"But how can I just walk away?" I demanded, my tone desperate, louder. "After everything we've been, how can I just leave?"

"You'll do it because you love him," he said gently. "Right now, it may seem impossible to you, but when the moment comes you'll understand it."

"And if I go to him and that moment doesn't come?" I asked quietly.

"Then maybe I'm mistaken," Spain replied with a smile. He raised his glass to his lips. "For your sake, I almost hope that I am."

I reached for the wine bottle only to discover that he'd succeeded in taking it.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

I'd meant to go to England that afternoon, while the sun was still out and shining. Somehow the daylight always seemed to make a (somewhat) honest man out of me. At Spain's urging, however, I called ahead. I'd expected England to hang up on me as he always did. He didn't. On the contrary, he told me to come but to wait until that night. I saw it as an opportunity to reinforce myself with more wine and did not argue the point. Unfortunately, Spain saw it as an opportunity to monitor me more carefully, and by the time I arrived on England's doorstep, I was painfully sober.

When he opened the door to let me inside, I didn't make eye contact. I needed my wits about me, and looking him in the eyes had never helped in that regard. Either I became instantly captivated or was bombarded by guilt.

"It's not even midnight yet," England remarked wryly. I heard him shut the door as I walked down the hall towards his study. "This is rather early for you."

"I might have been later, but Spain's kept me sober," I answered conversationally. Idle surface talk was our speciality. I entered the office first and took a seat opposite his desk. I tried not to think of the things we'd done on that desk, or on the floor, or on the walls to either side of it. I tried not to think of what he and America might have done in the same places.

"How painful for you," he commented as he passed me to take his own seat. He shuffled some papers out of the way before meeting my eyes.

"More than you could comprehend," I said with my most charming smile.

"Actually, I'm quite sure I could." But he didn't continue on that point. I noted that England looked tired but happy, healthy. "Why did you want to see me?"

I didn't want to start the conversation with the cliché _about last night,_ especially since it was actually two nights ago. I didn't think I needed to be very specific though. England was no fool, and he knew what he'd done. "You've no idea what that kiss cost me," I informed him, my smile never wavering.

He sighed and steepled his fingers. "So… there's not going to be a preamble this time? Normally it takes a good hour before you get down to what it is you actually want."

"Oh, but I don't want anything."

That surprised him. England studied me carefully, trying to see through my carefully sculpted ease and failing. "_You_ not want something?"

"No," I said simply. "I _need _something, but it's from me and not from you. I need to be honest with myself, you see, and the only way to succeed is for you hear my words as well."

Something chilled in his eyes. "If this is about me and you, then I believe it's something better left unsaid."

"I used to believe so as well, but that kiss, mon cher…" I rested my head on a loose fist. "You've sabotaged us both. I've been jealous quite a while, you see, and that only made me more aware of it." I shrugged weakly. "I can't stay silent any longer."

England looked away from me, arms crossed. He looked pensive, not angry. "Then maybe you should leave."

My eyes flashed. "You're cruel, you know."

"I know."

"And he doesn't deny it!" I exclaimed with out-of-place happiness. I straightened in my seat, hands falling carelessly on the armrests. "Oh that makes this so much easier."

He stared at me, disconcerted from my sudden change in tone.

"I didn't always love you, did you know that?" Though my voice was amiable, my eyes were cold, locked unfalteringly on England's. "I loved you in the beginning, and I love you now in the end, but there were times in the middle where I simply used you. How I regret that now. I wish I'd always been so honest."

England said nothing, searching my face. My words didn't seem like a revelation to him, and I wondered what that said about me.

"I thought that I had you fixated, obsessed." I didn't let my voice falter, though it seemed to want to. "For a time, I know that was true. I took for granted that it would always be so and was careless in my affection towards you. I should have taken greater care of who I took into my bed, and paid more attention to what the knowledge did to you. For that, I can not apologize enough. I've agonized over it for many years, centuries, but I always tried to put it out of my mind." I shook my head. "I failed in doing so, of course, but denial suited me for a time."

"Yes, it suited you and tortured me," England said lowly.

I met his eyes again, couldn't stop my pain from showing. I deserved his resentment and so much more. I'd never been faithful, never been more than a fraud. My smile was the smile of a wretch that knew he was a wretch. "Forgive me, England. Forgive me, darling brother. I never meant to torment you. I neglected you. I'm so sorry."

He was silent.

"I love you." Simply, directly. I held our eye contact and nothing could have made me break it.

England waited for me to go on. I didn't. "That's it?" he asked finally, emotionlessly.

"I love you," I repeated. There was so much more I could have said, but my discretion was what made this confession different. I _had_ to hold to that.

"No flattery, no flourishes, no poetry?"

I shook my head, no. "I'm not deceiving you this time. I have no use for the excess. All I have to say is _I love you._" When he didn't respond, I stood. I didn't trust myself to stay. I didn't know what I'd do if I did. I gave him a slight bow that seemed to surprise him all the more. "I know there was a time when you loved me too. I wish I'd cherished it. Forgive me for that as well, England."

When I began to walk away, he called after me. "And how do you know I wasn't with you because your hair was blonde and your eyes were blue? Like his."

I'll never forget that moment. I'll never forget that moment, because the pain that shot through me was only worsened by the fact that I truthfully answered, "I don't."

"And ask me how I know if you ever loved me."

I knew what his answer would be, but I asked anyway, feebly, pleadingly. "How do you know if I ever loved you?"

"I don't," he said, and each word was like a wound. "You've deceived me too many times, and I can't trust you." England bowed his head, looked away from me. "I had a confession from you every week, but… this is the first you've ever apologized to me like this. There was a time when that would have meant everything to me." I glanced over my shoulder and met his eyes again. They looked like goodbye. "That time is long past. Whatever chance you had to mend what was between us is gone. I don't love you. Accept that and leave."

Everything inside me ached, but I did not let my resolve weaken. "I will," I said carefully. I could sense his shock, his disbelief that I was obeying him. "I do love you, England. But if you won't allow me to express it in the way that I truly wish I could, then I'll do it in another way. I promise you, I won't interfere in your life anymore, not in the way I have. I swear I'll be professional as a nation and disappear as a man and as a brother." I paused on the threshold but did not look back. "I love you, so I'll walk away."

I think he tried to say something. I heard his voice. But I didn't turn around, and the words were lost.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

I kept a brisk pace when I was trying not to think. He didn't love me, but he didn't hate me. I could see it in his eyes. It was almost as if I wasn't worth hate, like I wasn't worth that extra bit of emotion. I did believe that I lost my chance. I'd squandered it through the years. I'd taken the love he'd once give me, used him, humiliated him, and betrayed him. Of course he didn't love me.

I was two blocks away when someone shouted after me.

"Hey! Hey, France! Wait!"

I turned around to stare behind me, confused. That voice sounded like….

America caught up to me, looking extremely relieved that he'd done so. His hands were on his knees as he tried to catch his breath, and I wondered what his health was like. The America I remembered wouldn't get tired that easily. "I'm so glad I caught you!" he choked out.

"Is there something you want to say to me?" I asked curtly. Frankly, he was the last person I wanted to speak to at the moment.

"Yeah!" the younger nation nodded, straightening. "I was upstairs. I heard everything!"

My expression darkened, but he continued before I could respond.

"He was lying!"

My eyes widened in surprise. That wasn't what I expected to hear.

"Yeah!" he added at my expression. "He was lying! And he was a total _bastard_ about it too. That's why it took me so long to catch up to you. I had to lecture him. It was weird, 'cause you know, he's the one that always lectures me. But, look…" his expression grew more serious. "He does love you. We talk about it a lot. He talks about you, and I talk about Russia."

I tried to digest this information, but he moved on before I could do so properly.

"He doesn't trust you though, and _that's _why he said what he did. He thinks you just want to… uh… 'make a game out of him' again." He looked so earnest that I couldn't help but believe him. I didn't think America was capable of that sort of deception. "When we first started, um… you know…" I did know but didn't want to think about it. "Well, it used to be a big issue. He was still in love with you, and um… Sorry, I'm not really sure how to say this kind of crap," he broke off sheepishly.

"No, I understand," I assured him. "But word to the wise… This isn't the sort of thing you tell a rival."

He looked away, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. But… you were there first, you know? And I mean, we both kind of wrecked things with him. He told me he didn't love me, and I remember what that was like. I couldn't let you walk away without knowing… God, he's going to be angry with me though."

"Pretend you couldn't find me," I advised.

He blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yes," I smiled kindly. "I won't act as if I know the truth. I have to earn the right to hear it from him, and until I do, I won't mention it."

"Oh, thanks." He didn't seem to know what to do next. I watched him cast around for something to say. "Look, I know you want to be with him again, and I don't really know how to feel about that. You said you were jealous earlier, and I'm pretty sure I'd be jealous too if our positions were reversed. But..." America looked at me, and in that moment it was difficult for me to think of him as a child. "I want England to be happy, and I'm not sure he can be happy with just one of us. I've heard of nations' relationships working in threes before. Maybe it can with us."

My eyes widened again and I let out a light laugh. "You've surprised me twice tonight, America. But I agree with you. I'm not sure he can be happy with just one of us either." I took a deep breath and shook my head. "But I've made no progress at all if I don't tell you that I know he's happier with you than he ever was with me."

America stared at me. "Really?"

"Really." My voice was no longer as light. I looked away, towards the street.

"I'm going to tell him to go talk to you," America decided suddenly.

"What?"

"He might not believe that you really love him, but I do," he said with a note of passion in his voice. "You wouldn't have just told me he was happier with me if you didn't. Plus, you don't look like you right now. You look… broken."

How right he was. "What can you possibly have to gain by telling him to come to me?" I asked wonderingly.

"Nothing," America shrugged. "But that's the point, isn't it? We love him. Even if I'm not his choice in the end, I want him to be happy."

"Then you're a selfless fool…" I said with the same note of disbelief.

He grinned, adjusted his glasses. "Isn't that what you were just trying to be?"


	5. Chapter 5 Daylight Ties

**Author's Note: **Here's the last part! Thank you SO much for your reviews!

0o0o0o0o0o0

(Later that same night)

_**England's Perspective**_

America, resolute and uncharacteristically serious, stood in front of me and essentially offered the means to my own happiness at the expense of his own. I wondered if he realized that I had just done the same for him. I doubted it; he probably assumed that when I had turned France away it had been from my distrust for the other nation. That was true, of course, but I'd also done it because I was committed to our own relationship. America didn't seem to have factored that into the equation.

I, disbelieving and uncharacteristically taken aback, stood in front of America and let out a hollow laugh. I found it highly ironic that I didn't know what I wanted to do, let alone what I _should_ do, and yet he professed to have found the answer to both. And, again ironic, that sweet answer to my happiness was in making amends with France. France, who had single-handedly diminished my capacity for trust and taken whatever innocence I might have possessed. France, who had taught me that betrayal was a rather lucrative business. France, who had aided in creating the schism between America and I in the first place.

And yet my entire body had gone cold when France walked away. I'd never seen that look of fear on his face before, not in that context. When he'd turned his back on me, I'm certain my face had mirrored that fear. America had come downstairs then, shouted something at me about being a liar, about treating France the way France had treated me, and I felt even colder, numb, shocked. Then he'd rushed out the door.

America had come back from chasing after him. I knew at once that he had caught up to France and told him the truth, but for some reason he chose to lie. I let him.

"England…" he started again. "You aren't making much sense. I mean… You've always been completely honest with me about how you felt about France, but now that something might actually come of it, you're lying."

"I'm not lying," I lied bitterly.

He quirked an eyebrow at me, and I resisted the urge to throw something at him. Why'd he have to look so smug all of the time? "Right… so two nights ago when you randomly kissed me in the doorway of that club and then looked at him… That wasn't supposed to be a visual bitchslap?"

I didn't realize he'd noticed that. "Are you calling me a bitch?" I asked in an attempt to divert his attention.

He shrugged. "Kinda. But that's not the point."

Damn it all. "I was trying to make him understand. What do you want me to do?" I asked in exasperation.

"I want you to go to him and tell him the truth," America said, crossing his arms. "For once he did that for you, and then you repaid him by being the one to lie. Not very awesome of you."

"I didn't realize your obsession with being the hero extended into romance." My voice was a little coarse even to my own ears. I hadn't meant it to be. "But you've got it wrong. I've loved France since I was too young to understand the implications. Did that stop him? No, and I bloody loved him anyway. I loved him through all of it. It didn't matter how many times he betrayed me, how many times I found him in bed with someone else, or how many times he took advantage of me. I loved him. I still do. I did lie to him just now, but you haven't seen the full picture."

America seemed to be preparing for me to deal a verbal blow, and his expression was reminiscent of a dog waiting to be hit.

I met America's eyes very carefully, took a few steps forward, and took his hands in mine. I spoke very quickly and in a low voice. "In just a few centuries I've come to love you more than I loved him in my entire lifetime. He isn't worth risking that."

This statement seemed to have two effects on America. First he looked relieved. Then he looked affronted. "Wait. Whadaya mean 'risking that'? Have you heard anything I've said to you? I'm telling you I'm okay with it!"

"And I'm telling you I'm not," I said stubbornly, calmly.

His hands clenched in mine. "Why? I'm not suggesting you go have sex with him. I'd prefer it if you didn't, actually. I'm just suggesting you go _talk_ to him."

"To France that's basically the same thing," I muttered. "If I show up at his house, he'll take it as an invitation." How many times had I made that mistake? (But how many times had I actually thought of it as a mistake?)

"I don't think so this time," America said quietly. "He seemed different."

"Giving the impression that 'this time is different' is a talent of his." I shook my head and looked to the side. "You don't know him the way I do."

"And you didn't see him just now!" he countered.

I smirked and met his eyes again. "I thought you said you didn't catch up to him."

America blinked. "Oh. Umm…"

I sighed. "It's all right, America." Dropping his hands, I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his waist instead. He didn't hesitate to lift his arms around me as well. "The truth is… If I could believe everything he said just now, then I _would _go to him." It was true. I'd been so starved for a moment of sincerity that a single such moment would overbalance the rest.

I felt his lips brush the top of my head. "If there were away to prove he was being honest… You'd go?"

I looked up at him, searching. "Why are you so set on this?"

He answered me with a kiss. There was an almost lazy ease to it that calmed me inexplicably. That something could move so slow and be so gentle told me we had time. America let the ebb fade and rested his forehead against mine. "I don't think any relationship should end with a lie." I felt a pang of guilt. "If you're really going to call it quits with France… do it with the truth. Please. And if there's any part of you that still wants to give him a chance, do that too. I'll be right here. You've got two sets of eyes to watch him with this time."

"Self-sacrificing idiot," I murmured against his lips.

I felt him smile. "Happy to be of service."

"You've yet to tell me how I'm supposed to trust him."

"You really can't trust anything he says…?" America ventured.

"No," I said lowly. Then something occurred to me. When France had walked through my door, he'd said he would have arrived later but… "I think there is someone else I can trust, though." I pulled away slowly to look at America. "Someone who might know him better than I do."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**France's Perspective**_

Whatever hope America had given me faded by the time I returned home. I'd had too much time to think about England's reaction, and I could find no opening there. America might have told me the truth, but England's willingness to lie was a different truth in and of itself. I was no fool. I knew when a door was closed. But I _was_ a fool. Wasn't it a habit of mine to beat down closed doors? And all with a smile on my face.

I rested my arms on the kitchen counter, watching Spain make lunch. He must have gone shopping while I was away because I didn't remember owning many of the ingredients. I wondered if I was allowed to have wine again. Of course I was. Spain wouldn't be that cruel to me, not now.

The phone rang.

I sighed and spun away from the counter. I picked up the receiver and checked the caller ID.

It was England.

I stared at the number numbly before answering. "England…?" I asked almost skeptically.

"_Give the phone to Spain."_

I paused in surprise. "Oh…" I waited a few breaths, absorbing the command. "Alright." I held the receiver out towards Spain. "It's for you, mon ami."

He was looking at me curiously, spoon raised from where he'd been testing something in one of the pots. He took the phone from me with a questioning expression, but I only shook my head, equally confused. "Hello? Oh! Hola, England…" There was a long pause. Spain's eyes met mine as he answered. "Yes." Another long pause. "…Yes." His eyebrows furrowed as England said something else on the other end. "No se. If he's all right with it, then I will. If not, then… yes, I understand. Okay, here he is." He held out the phone to me again.

I took it.

"_I'm coming over. You'd better not be drunk. If you are, I swear I'll bloody leave."_

"Oui," I answered, astonished. He was coming? There was a click on the other end, and I replaced the receiver. I turned to Spain, wonderingly. "What did he say to you?"

Spain crossed his arms and leaned against the cabinets, smiling. "He repeated what you said last night, then asked if he could trust you. Then he asked if you loved him. And then he asked me to be gone when he got here so you two could speak alone." He studied me carefully with the same smile. "I'll leave if you want me to. And if you want me to stay, I'll stay."

I considered it for a moment, still dazed. "Leave the house, but please stay in the city. I have a feeling I'll want you again soon…"

"I better get the full encounter in every detail," Spain warned, wagging the spoon at me.

"Of course."

He nodded and turned back towards the stove.

I felt a flicker of hope.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**England's Perspective**_

_**The first time…**_

France was asleep, curled on his side and facing away from me as he always did. He hadn't been visiting me as often as he used to, yet he still climbed into my bed just as he did when I was younger. It made me mad after he'd been gone so long. I knew he was busy, but he was my big brother wasn't he? Shouldn't he have time for me no matter what? My hands clenched in the sheets as I looked up at the ceiling. And it wasn't just that…

His clothes, rich though they might be, didn't hide the marks on his neck. I knew what those marks were now. People often dismissed me as child, but I _wasn't_. I was _fifty._ I only looked like the fifteen year olds that my younger brothers and I had to spar with. I wasn't really a child. He might look eighteen, but I wasn't _that_ much younger. I was old enough now to know my older brother's reputation, that was for sure.

I argued with France a lot, and I made things difficult for him. There were times when I saw that too-pretty-for-a-boy face and wanted nothing more than to punch it. But then he'd smile, and his eyes got a lot bluer, and it was okay that he was that pretty, and I…

Why not me? I'd heard so many stories about the people France got involved with. Why not me? It was probably because I was so uncouth. France wasn't all that opposed to dirt and mess, but then he turned around and was a _gentleman. _I wasn't very good at that part. Plus I'd beat him up a few times, and I couldn't always remember what started it…

"France…?" I asked weakly into the dark.

For a moment there was silence and stillness. Then my brother stirred, turned on his back. "Hmm? England? Are you awake, sweetling?"

"Don't call me that," I grumbled, scowling slightly even though he couldn't see it.

He laughed lightly. I heard the sheets moving, and there was an arm draped over my stomach. He was a lot closer now, his face against my shoulder. I felt warm. "Is there something you need?"

"I… um… I…" I stumbled over the words. Why did I always do that in front of him? I was very good with words everywhere else.

He laughed again, and his breath was warm against my neck. I was glad it was dark and he couldn't see the colour in my cheeks. His fingers flexed against my hip. "What is it?"

"Do you like me?" I asked in a rush.

There was a pause, and I felt France go still. Then he lifted himself up on one arm, so that he was above me. "Of course I like you."

"Then why…" I took a steadying breath. His hand was still on my hip. I wondered what that meant. "Why don't you… treat me like other countries?"

"Treat you like other countries?" he repeated slowly, confused. "_Oh…_" I couldn't see his smile, but I could hear it. His hand left my hip, and for some reason I felt disappointed, but then his fingers traced through my hair before hooking beneath my chin. "I didn't know that's what you wanted, my darling. If I had, I'd have _never _neglected you this long."

My eyes widened. "Then you…"

He leaned over me, and suddenly I was very aware of his body pressing against mine. He moved so slowly. Then his mouth was next to my ear. "All you ever had to say was…" His lips brushed the shell. "…France, please."

I took in a shallow breath, and that moment seemed to last an hour. "France… please."

It was my first kiss. It was my first time I'd felt anything like it.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**Present day…**_

I stood outside France's door, waiting. I mentally steeled myself against any line he might use. I swore I had them all memorized by now, but he never seemed to run out of new ones when he sensed he'd grown predictable. Spain had called my cell while I was on my way over, telling me he had left the house. I didn't know whether or not to view France and I being alone as a blessing. It had been my idea, however, and if this turned out to be a fool's errand, then I'd simply have to live with a moment's idiocy. I'd lived with worse at France's hands.

He opened the door, and my mind blanked. I had to literally _force_ myself to remember the justified anger I'd been feeding off of a few moments ago. Why was it that whenever I saw him like this (tired, disheveled but still _so_ attractive, a white collared shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, that familiar smile) I started to wax poetic? It was something about how his eyes looked blue, but the closer one got, the more honey could be seen. Or how his smile seemed to say _I'm about to be rogue, be a dear and don't hold it against me. _

"Hello, England."

No slur. His eyes were focused. His balance was good. He wasn't drunk. "Hello, France."

He stepped aside to let me in. I walked by and into the living room beyond. I knew he was watching me and resisted the urge to look over my shoulder to catch _where_ he was watching. "The balcony?" I asked.

"If you'd like."

"I would." I headed there without a second thought. I felt more comfortable in the open air as though unseen eyes would somehow hold us both accountable.

I took the seat across from France's, just as I'd always done. His eyes lingered on my chair for a moment, and something almost like dread flitted across his face, but strangely I didn't feel like it was for me. There was an empty wine glass sitting on the table in front of me, but other than that the surface was clear.

"Could you… switch chairs?" It sounded almost like a plea.

I raised an eyebrow, but obliged him and took the seat facing towards the city. He sat down next to me. His chair was a respectable distance away; it was a good start by his standards.

"You've come to tell me something…?" he started tentatively.

I closed my eyes briefly and then opened them again. "Yes."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_**France's Perspective**_

I watched England's face, trying to garner a hint of what was to come. Not many people would have caught it, but to me he looked nervous. That was probably a sign in my favor. He was never nervous when he came to shout at me or degrade me.

"I know America told you I was lying."

Oh, but of course that boy wouldn't be able to maintain a lie, if he'd told it at all. I smiled an unassuming smile. "He did. Were you?"

England seemed to struggle not to look away from my eyes. "Yes."

"Then… What is the truth?" I asked, that daring bit of hope fumbling in my chest.

"You don't deserve it," he said evenly. "You've never deserved it. I should hate you after everything you've put me through. " His fists clenched in his lap, and his eyes burned. "But I don't. I love you. Damn you for it, but I love you."

I didn't care about the accusatory tone or his curse. All I heard with the affirmation, and that was enough to replenish the life that I'd been missing for nearly three decades. It was so rare for me to hear a confession and not know how to respond. Pretty words came so easily to me, but not this time. This time it was England, and this time I _could not lie. _"You're right. I don't deserve it… But you've no idea how much those words have saved me," I responded feebly.

He was quick to turn the conversation on me. "Spain believes you told me the truth when you said you loved me," he said, watching me closely.

"And he's right. I love you." It was redundant. But I had to say it again. A confession wasn't complete unless both parties offered their side.

Silence fell between us; our eyes fell away from each other.

"What do we do?" I murmured. "What is it that you want, England? You hold all the cards this time. It is your decision."

"What do I want?" he repeated slowly.

My eyes traced his profile. I knew what _I _wanted. I just needed to keep reminding myself that that wasn't what mattered. I had to control myself, no matter how tempting he was. This thought did nothing to stop me from imagining what I'd like England's answer to be, however. I could remember a time when I'd asked the same question, and he'd responded _I want you to get on your knees and suck me off._ Or a time when he was much younger, when all he could manage was a soft blush and a softer _kiss me._

"I want to be able to trust you, France."

I met his eyes again. I smiled sadly, knowing how unattainable that want might be. He was grasping at a dream, and I would dearly love to give it to him. But I'd already poisoned him against me, and I didn't know if it could be helped. "And what would I have to do to earn your trust?"

"Nothing that you haven't already suggested," he responded simply.

"Oh?"

"You said you wouldn't interfere in my life anymore," England reminded me, speaking slowly as though giving each word the opportunity to sink in. "You said you'd stay professional as a nation and disappear as anything else."

Something cold and lifeless clenched in my throat. "Yes… I did."

"Then do it."

My eyes fell from his, sweeping out towards the skyline.

"But not for forever."

As quick as I'd turned away, I turned back.

His smile was cautious and barely there, but it was a smile. "Just long enough for me to be convinced that you're sincere."

"And after that…?" I breathed, not daring to move, scared I'd somehow lose this moment.

"After that, we can start your last chance. Your _last_ chance," he emphasized.

I didn't dare to believe it. But I _did _believe it. It couldn't be true. But it _was _true. And he loved me. A last chance? It was still a chance! "And America?" I asked quietly.

"I'll still be with America, and he will be watching you as closely as I am." He crossed his arms and looked away. "I've had to stand sharing you with far more than one person. You can bear to share me with only America."

"I can," I agreed, everything inside me alight. "God, I can. England, I…"

He stood before I could even decide what it was I was trying to say. "Then it starts today."

My expression deadened. "You're leaving…?"

He nodded, and turned to go. I watched him in dull pain, saw him suddenly hesitate.

He spun back around, and I rose to my feet in the same instant. We both moved at the same time, so fast I doubt either of us fully realized what we were doing. My hands latched onto his hips, his arms went around my neck, and our mouths crashed together with the same momentum. It was furious on his side, desperate on mine, and _God_ I wanted this, wanted him, wanted to taste something more than bitter memories.

I ran my tongue lightly over his bottom lip, and I felt his body tremor. His mouth opened slightly. I bit softly, a thank you, and then my tongue met his. The anger that had receded came back full force, but now it tasted of passion, and I returned it as much as I could, pulling him tighter against me. He was warm, so warm, and no matter how many times I had him, I would _never_ get bored with this.

The kiss weakened to the light touch of our lips, adopting a gentle rhythm. Then it stopped completely, and I knew better than to start it again. It was a goodbye, though I knew now it wasn't permanent. We pulled away, looked at each other.

Overhead, the sun came out from behind the wind-curled clouds, and the sudden light made us both look up. "Remember at Versailles…" I murmured, my mouth red from the kiss. "You once told me that my king looked like the sun, but that I looked like the god that had put that sun in the sky."

"You were beautiful…" England responded softly. Then he freed himself from my embrace and took a step back. He met my eyes for one more moment, then turned back towards the door.

This time, he walked through it.

And I let him leave.


End file.
